The Dragon on the Devil's Tail
by nyxwolff
Summary: Lisbeth Salander is researching the life and death of Tate Langdon, a serial killer. / AU - chapter; follow Lisbeth's journey on Tumblr for journals and sub-chapters.
1. Chapter 1: A Web

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with a wide vocabulary and enough time on their hands to throw this together. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he is also a serial killer. Hence why this is an AU we're being thrust into. Enjoy.

Chapter 1 – A Web

"We have a case for you," his deep voice said over the other side of the phone. Lisbeth took a drag of her cigarette, the smoke filling her lungs, holding it in, letting it stream out between her lips. She said nothing. "It's in America, in Los Angeles. It's an old case, but American police are still not giving up on it. Are you in?" Inhaling the last of the tobacco, Lisbeth stubbed out her dead cigarette.

"I'll be on the first flight tomorrow afternoon," she said, running her fingers along the glass rim of her ashtray. Armansky breathed a deep sigh of relief on the other line. "Excellent. I'll let them know you're on your way. I'll fax over some information that you should look over before tomorrow as well as your travel information. Good luck, Lisbeth." She pressed her thumb against the red button on her small silver phone and threw it on the counter. She moved over to her fridge, pulling out a can of Coke and cracking it open as she listened to the rattle of her fax machine begin to run.

Throwing herself on her chair, she opened up her web browser and snatched the first piece of paper that slid out from the fax's slot. '_Westfield High School Massacre',_ it read. She rolled her eyes, typing in the title into the search engine. Her eyes scanned over the blue links, stumbling upon one that seemed legitimate. Why was Armansky making her work on a case about some fucked up teenager? Lisbeth began her reading, noting how the killer showed up at the school with a shotgun, ending the lives of over five students and handicapping a teacher. His school photo appeared on her screen – light skin, dark brown eyes, and curly blond hair – his vacant expression burning a hole into the LED monitor. She studied his face, memorized the lines and contours, and began printing out the information.

"What else did you do, boy?" she whispered, as she went back to the main page of the search engine and scrolled through the results. They were the same outdated articles, re-telling the same story of the lonely child that arrived at his high school and took the lives of innocent students. This was nothing but an open and shut case, so why was Armansky claiming that there was more? Exiting out of the browser, she collected the freshly printed documents Armansky had faxed over. She began to rifle through them, looking at the black text strewn across the white pages.

Everything looked the same as the searches on the web did: articles about the teenage killer and little to no facts about him in general. Lisbeth threw the sheets of paper onto her desk, folding her thin arms across her chest, her upper lip playing with the ring protruding out of her bottom one. With the documents scattered neatly across her laptop's keyboard, a single sheet removed itself from the rest that looked different than the others. Lisbeth reached for it, snatching it from the group of other documents and raised it towards her level of vision.

_Sydney Cooper, aged sixteen, was found dead on I-5 headed towards Santa Ana. Through further investigation, the autopsy stated that Cooper was raped with a metal object after being penetrated by a male. There were rope marks around her wrists and ankles as well as her throat having been severely burned by what doctors are noting as sodium hypochlorite, or household cleaning bleach. Cooper was a start athlete on her school's volleyball team as well as a cherished member of the drama club. No leads on a suspect as of yet._

Lisbeth's eyes bore in the black and white photo of Sydney Cooper – gray skin, gray eyes, dark gray hair; that's all she was now: a black and white photo on a faxed sheet of paper. Suddenly Lisbeth understood why Armansky had sent her on this case; Sydney Cooper was not the only teenage girl to be found on I-5 – there had been others.

Slamming down the rest of her drink, Lisbeth stood and made her way over to her bedroom, opening up her drawers and throwing clothes onto her unmade bed. She made her way over to her closet and pulled out a black rolling suitcase and started stuffing her clothes in, making her way into the bathroom and gathering together her toilettes before throwing them in as well. She was unsure of how long she would be staying in the States, but it was better to be over prepared than under. Grabbing her favorite backpack, she threw in a flashlight, her digital camera, her video recorder, and the security cameras she had used in Hedestad only winters ago.

Lisbeth stuffed her laptop and it's accessories into her backpack and sealed her bag and suitcase shut; she was ready for tomorrow's journey. Grabbing another can of Coke from her fridge, she grabbed the documents relating to the Cooper's murder as well as the school shooter's tragically dull story and slumped herself down on the couch. She threw Sydney's story onto the coffee table, and taking a swig of her drink, started reading through the school shooter's tale once again.

"Tate Langdon," she whispered, as her eyes glued themselves to the black, 12-point sized print of his name. She bit her bottom lip, the metal from her ring coating the tip of her tongue, and she read through the remaining documents. The shooting occurred in the early 90's, as did the death of Sydney Cooper; did the police believe Langdon was also Cooper's killer? She threw his documents on top of Sydney's and rubbed her temples with her thumb and forefinger, closing her eyes as a dull pain began to settle.

It seemed like a simple case, but Lisbeth knew that if American police were contacting Armansky for help here in Sweden that things must not be going the way they had planned, especially if it had been dragged on for eighteen years. Grabbing her pack of cigarettes from the coffee table, she placed one between her lips, she lit it and inhaled sharply, the nicotine filling her lungs and making the pain in her head subside.

The flight would be long – she would have time to look over the papers on the plane. She grabbed the documents and placed them in her backpack, turning off the fax machine as she passed it. It was there that she noticed that she had forgotten a piece of paper, and she swiped it from the tray. It was a black and white photo of a house; large, upscale, definitely from the Victorian era. Underneath, written in Armansky's untidy scrawl, was the phrase: "Killer's home = where you'll be staying." Lisbeth's eyes drew themselves over the extravagant home that Tate Langdon had once resided and raised her eyebrows in satisfaction.

She wouldn't mind staying somewhere that looked like home for a while.


	2. Chapter 2: Intruder

**A/N: **I do not own these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands to piece this all together. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he's a serial killer. Hence why this is an AU we've been thrust into. Enjoy.

Chapter 2 – Intruder

The twelve-hour flight from Stockholm to Los Angeles gave Lisbeth plenty of time to read and re-read the documents Armansky had sent over the day before. With two stops in between, she was able to compose enough about the mysterious teenage boy with the little information that was given about him. She knew of his fear, his insecurities, and the anger that once ran through his veins; she knew because she felt it herself.

"Would you like anything, ma'am?" Lisbeth turned away from the window to face the overly cheery flight attendant. "Black coffee," she muttered, and with a nod she left Lisbeth to stare out at the vast ocean of clouds. Casually she wondered if Tate Langdon ever saw the sky like this, or if he was trapped in a world that he could not escape and found the only possible means of breaking out. The attendant came back with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a handful of sugar packets and tabs of cream. Lisbeth stuffed them in the small slit in the seat in front of her and drank the dark liquid.

The plane landed, the darkness settling in with the city lights blinking and glowing in the California sky. Her nerves set aflame, Lisbeth grabbed her backpack and shuffled her way through the thin line of travellers into LAX. The airport was alive with excitement as the young woman made her way through the crowd and towards the baggage claim. Finally making her way there, she waited for her suitcase to round the bend with the others, tapping the toe of her boot on the linoleum floor. Tired business men and women crowded around her, their eyes bloodshot from waking up from their long naps and some with bags under their eyes from the lack of sleep.

Grabbing her black suitcase, Lisbeth made her way out of the airport and into the warm LA air, the palm trees overhead gently swaying in the slight breeze that tickled the night. A line of yellow taxis waited for travellers to pick up their call, and Lisbeth made her way over to one, pounding on the hood of the trunk to signal for the driver to open it. When he did, she stuffed her suitcase inside and slipped into the back seat. It strongly smelled of curry, and Lisbeth wrinkled her nose as the Middle Eastern man turned in his seat to look at her.

"Where to?" he asked, his accent thick. Pulling a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket, she handed it to the cabbie who held it right up to his face. "Oh my," he said, handing her back the slip of paper. "Are you sure you want to go there?" Lisbeth narrowed her bleached eyebrows. "Yes," she muttered. "Why?" The cabbie revved the engine, blaring the headlights and putting the taxi into drive. He made his way away from the airport.

"That's The Murder House, miss," he said. "It's supposed to be haunted." Lisbeth rolled her eyes, looking out the window and watching the other cars pass her by. "I don't believe in ghost stories," she told the cabbie. He shook his head, making a left down the road. "I don't believe in ghosts either, miss," he said. "But this house is the exception."

The cabbie stayed silent for the rest of the trip, which much to Lisbeth's enjoyment wasn't long. "I don't want to park in front of it," the cabbie said, as he rolled up a block away from the house. "I don't want spirits entering my cab." Lisbeth rolled her eyes and stuffed a fistful of dollar bills at the cabbie. "Thanks," she muttered, and the cabbie popped the trunk and Lisbeth grabbed her thinks. She watched as the yellow taxi drove away and she made her trek over to the house.

In the darkness, she could see the dull red of the brick and the soft creams and tans the towers were painted. The iron gates were rusted over with vines beginning to creep their way between the bars. She pushed them open, a deep creak echoing throughout the night. Lisbeth looked up at the house, the lights diminished and the curtains drawn; there was no one in this house – it looked like it hadn't been lived in in months. Setting her suitcase down, Lisbeth reached into her backpack and pulled out her camera and began snapping a few shots of the front of the house.

It was the flash that stirred them. Hayden ran up the basement steps and into the front hallway, thrusting her brown eye into the circular peephole. Her pink lips turned down in a scowl when she saw the thin being flashing her camera at the house, her body covered in thick layers too warm from the weather.

"Shit," Hayden sneered, and she pushed herself away from the door and ran back down into the basement. Hayden was unsure of what to do – the house had been vacant for months and the spirits had settled themselves into a sleep where they avoided each other and the outside world. With someone about to enter the house, the whole peaceful order of things was bound to throw itself into a whirlwind of disaster.

Her mind went straight to Tate, whose emotions had gone straight to hell since Violet had decided she had enough with his bullshit. He had exiled himself from the other spirits of the house, and the heaviness inside seemed to have calmed with him withdrawing from the rest of them. But with this stranger stepping foot into the unknown, Hayden was unsure of the fate that would unfold for her or the residents of the house.

Lisbeth shoved her camera back into her bag and pulled the key Armansky had given her at the Stockholm airport out of her pocket and stuck it in the lock to the front door. It wedged itself deep into the cogs of the lock, and she struggled with turning it until finally it budged and the oak door swung itself in.

A crystal chandelier hung over her head, the rainbow encrusted jewels glittering in the moonlight that snuck its way through the stained glass windows. The reflections danced on the wooden floors, and Lisbeth slowly made her way into the house, her boots making a deep thuds as she took steady paces.

"Shit, shit, shit," Hayden muttered, chewing on her nails, the black nail polish that had painted on them beginning to peel off. Her eyes darted across the dark basement, her ears alert to the sounds of the other spirits. All she could hear was the stranger's footfalls upstairs, and if she could hear it, the others certainly could to. Why weren't they responding though?

"Did you hear that?" Vivien raised her eyes from the book in her hands and turned to her husband who was doing the same. With an eyebrow raised, Ben seated himself upright in the bed, listening to the soft noises coming from downstairs. "Wait here," he told Vivien, and he rolled out of bed and made his way into the hallway. Peering over the banister, Ben saw the black suitcase waiting by the door, and his eyes scanned over to see a pale figure reach their hand up to turn on the light in the kitchen.

Lisbeth flicked the light on, the deep yellow glow casting itself against the marble counters and the metallic appliances. She opened up the door to the refrigerator and noted the empty contents. "Go figure," she muttered, slamming it shut. She pulled a granola bar out of her backpack and sunk into one of the three barstools seated at the island in the middle of the kitchen. She peeled open the wrapper and took a bite out of the sweet, dry oats, her eyes staring blankly at the cabinets across from her.

"Get Violet," Ben said, appearing back in the bedroom, running to the closet and pulling out a tee-shirt. Vivien scrambled out of bed, throwing her robe over her shoulders. "What's going on?" she asked as Ben let the shirt fall over his chest. He looked at his wife. "There's someone in the house." Instantly, the couple's minds began to race, and Vivien ran from the room quietly towards the room across the hallway.

Crawled underneath the covers, Violet lay with her eyes open, staring at the lamp on her bedside table. Her thoughts were swirling with the images of the lost soul in the basement; his eyes, his laugh, the way his lips turned up in that breathtaking smile. Her chest ached when she thought of him, and her blood boiled she dove deeper into those thoughts and realized what a monster he really was. "Violet!" Violet jumped in her bed, pushing herself up to see her mother walking in her room. "Mom?" she questioned, as Vivien made her way in.

"There's someone in the house," she said, grabbing her daughter by the shoulders and leading her out of the room. Violet knitted her eyebrows. "What?" she said, but Vivien only shook her head. "I'll explain later," she said. "Right now we have to go to the basement." Violet's heart sank; anywhere but the basement. "What about the attic?" she suggested. "They won't look up there, will they?" Vivien stopped in her tracks and looked at her teenage daughter. She nodded her head.

"You're right," she said. "We can't stay there forever, but for now…" She knew why Violet was hesitant about the basement; _he _was there. But sooner or later, they would all have face the demon that lurked there. "Go grab your brother from the nursery," she instructed. "Take him up to the attic. I'm going to get your father." Violet nodded and Vivien made her way downstairs.

Violet slipped into the nursery, careful not to make any loud noises. The soft sounds of Jonah's breathing crept into her ears, and she envied the ghostly infant. Carefully, she picked up the small boy and held him in her arms. "Shh," she cooed, as she gently rocked him. He didn't move, and Violet made her way out of the nursery and towards the attic.

"Ben!" Vivien whispered, creeping her way through the living room. She saw the light in the kitchen make its way out into the hallway, and she heard the distant sounds of life moving about inside. Her bare feet carefully made its way through the house until she spotted her husband in the shadows, a finger to his lips. Vivien stopped. He pointed towards the basement door where it was cracked a bit. Vivien shook her head and pointed upstairs, and Ben raised an eyebrow at her. "Attic," she mouthed, and Ben responded with a nod.

Lisbeth stood from the barstool and stretched her limbs, her jaw opening in a wide yawn. Scratching the curve in her side, she turned the kitchen light off and made her way back into the hallway to grab her suitcase and explore the upstairs for a bedroom to crash in. Upon stepping out of the kitchen, Lisbeth felt a cold chill wash over her, and the small girl shivered. Instantly, her mind wandered to the cab driver and his theories on ghosts, but she shook it off.

"Fuck off," she said to the darkness, and she grabbed her suitcase and made her way upstairs, purposefully stomping her boots as she climbed them.

"If that's what you want," he said with a low whisper, as he watched her from the crack in the doorframe, his insides tingling with excitement as new energy flowed through him.

How he loved the smell of fresh blood.


	3. Chapter 3: The Spare

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected authors. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than just a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he's also a serial killer. Hence why we're being thrust into an AU here. Enjoy.

Chapter 3 – The Spare

It was the sun creeping in through the dusty purple curtains that woke Lisbeth up. Groaning, she turned on her side and buried herself deep under the duvet, the soft comforter wrapping itself around her naked body. She was exhausted from the previous day's flight, and she wondered how long she slept. It didn't matter though; she had all the time in the world.

She dragged herself out of bed, her exposed chest tightening as the cool air of the house circulated against her. She scratched her side underneath her breast, her mother's name tattooed into her skin as a reminder of what she lost. She pulled her pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her backpack and lit a smoke, adding the stale scent of nicotine to the already dust contaminated air. With the cigarette dangling from her lips, Lisbeth made her way out of the bedroom and headed to the bathroom across the hall, her bare feet shuffling across the wooden floorboards.

Hayden peered out from Ben and Vivien's bedroom, watching as the stranger moved into the bathroom she had once used long ago. This girl, she seemed so…different than the other occupants that had walked through these halls. She wasn't here to _live_, she was here to _study_.

Lisbeth plopped herself down on the toilet and took a piss, inhaling her cigarette as she did so, listening to the sound of her urine hitting the toilet bowl. Looking across from her, she noted the anagrammed towels that lay folded against the metal bar. Her pierced brow raised, Lisbeth reached over and grabbed the white towel, the letter 'V' sewn into the material, holding it up to her face.

"V", she whispered, as her thumb traced over the golden thread. She threw the towel into the adjacent bathtub, wiped herself, and flushed the toilet before washing her hands, stubbing out her smoke in the sink. Splashing water of her face, Lisbeth scrubbed at the wear of the night and grabbed another one of the anagrammed towels (another 'V') and pat the skin of her face dry. She threw it on the ground and left the bathroom.

The sound of the towels hitting the tiled floor perked the interest of Moira, who craned her neck from the study's doorway, watching the naked girl make her way back into what was once Violet's bedroom. The old woman's heart raced as she noticed the carelessness of the stranger, her insides vibrating with irritation. "Not in my house," the old woman mumbled, and stepped out of the study, ready to pester the young woman.

"Are you crazy?" Hayden hissed, pushing the old woman into the study and slamming the door shut. Lisbeth's ears stood on alert as she heard the sound of a door hit the frame, and she turned on her heel and looked at her open bedroom door. She grabbed the nearest tee-shirt and slung it across her chest, making a break for the door and twisting her neck on either side of the hallway.

Nothing.

"Who is that?" Moira exclaimed, her cracked voice rising. Hayden pressed her palm against the woman's mouth and bit her bottom lip, listening to the intruder's fast footsteps; she heard them. "Later," Hayden mouthed. The old woman scowled at her, and Hayden let go of Moira when she no longer heard the stranger move. Hayden shook her head.

"Someone's in the house," she stated, and Moira rolled her eyes at the obvious. Hayden watched as her cloudy eye swiveled in its socket. "I don't know who she is," she continued. "But she's certainly not staying here." Although Hayden's soul was trapped in the house forever and she was full of resentment, she could not bare the thought of another person losing their life to the evil that seeped through the walls. Especially another woman.

"How do you suppose we get her out then?" Moira hissed, looking at the arrogant youth. Hayden shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "But we have to get her out of here somehow."

-x-

Lisbeth squinted her eyes as the sun beat down on her. Sweat started to pool at her temple as she walked down the LA streets, listening to the sounds of traffic and the inconsistent chatter of tourists and locals alike. She rounded the corner until she found a coffee shop, slipping inside and finding herself in a booth by the window. She watched the sunny city move across the window, their shorts riding up to high and their sunglasses framing their faces.

"What can I get for ya?" the waiter inquired, looking bored and out of place. "Black coffee and an English muffin," Lisbeth answered, and the waiter jotted down her order and walked to the back. Lisbeth opened up her bag and pulled out the files related to Tate Langdon, the school shooter that might very well be much more than that. She rifled through the papers once again, going over the same text that she had read over on the plane. There was nothing new that could help her; she needed more information.

The waiter emerged from the back of the shop, a circular tray topped with toasted grain, a mug of coffee, and various confectionaries. He placed her breakfast in front of her, his eyes scanning over the papers that lay out before her, nearly dropping her plate of English muffins to the floor.

"Where…," he stammered, as his eyes rested against the colored photo of Tate Langdon that rested underneath Lisbeth's fingers. She looked up at the stiff waiter, at his wide eyes and the sweat that started to bead at his temple. She picked up the picture of the boy and held it up to him. "Do you know him?" she questioned, her voice urgent. The waiter swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down against the skin of his throat.

"Know him?" he repeated, shaking his head. "I went to school with him." He tucked the tray underneath his armpit, looking at the hauntingly familiar face of the boy that left a tragic scar over his memory. Lisbeth looked up at the waiter, her eyes never blinking. "Tell me about him," she ordered. "Everything you know." The waiter shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the photo.

"I don't know to much," he said honestly. "I only know of what happened that day and what the papers said about him. Tate was a…he was a fucked up kid, man. I don't even remember him at school before the…before the…" he nodded his head to the other papers on the table, at the document labeled _'Westfield High School Massacre'_. Lisbeth threw the photo on the table, heaving a sigh of frustration.

"Okay," she said, and the waiter stood awkwardly at the side of the table, finding himself staring at Tate's photo that slid itself next to the salt and pepper shakers. Lisbeth looked up at him, her face in a scowl. "You can go now," she said, and the waiter jumped at her voice. "Right," he said. "Sorry." He shuffled away, and Lisbeth took a large bite out of her dry English muffin.

People don't just forget, Lisbeth thought. They push it to the back of their minds, knit-picking every single detail that happened until eventually it becomes so torn that it's easy to shove aside. That's how she dealt with her tragedies – why should this be any different?

Drinking her coffee and nibbling on her English muffin, the waiter pulled himself from the back of the shop and slipped her the check. "You know," he said, as she began to pull money out of her pocket. "If you want to find out about him, you might want to try the school. The librarian, the teacher that got shot, he still works there. You can ask him questions if you want, although I don't know what he can tell you." Lisbeth looked up at him, slipping him a twenty.

"Keep the change," she said, grabbing her backpack and leaving the coffee shop.

-x-

'_This is a smoke free school_' sign hanging next to the entrance to Westfield High School bore straight into Lisbeth's eyes. She inhaled sharply on her cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stomping on it with the toe of her boot. She grabbed the handles of the door and pushed her way inside, her eyes scanning the signs indicating the row of room numbers in the joining hallways. She bounded up a flight of stairs before finding herself in front of the library.

Lisbeth stood in front of the wooden doors leading into the library, noting the paneling, closing her eyes and visualizing the day of the shooting. The heavy footfalls of Tate Langdon making his way towards his next point of interest, the blood that trailed behind him, the terrified screams and whimpers of injured and frightened students; Lisbeth could see it perfectly. She opened her eyes, looking back at the entrance to the library and made her way inside.

Silent – just like a library should be. A golden plaque hung itself on the wall, the etched names of the fifteen students that lost their lives the day Tate Langdon decided to end them. Lisbeth stepped towards the plaque, running her fingers across the names.

"Can I help you?" Lisbeth turned to see a portly man with glasses and thinning hair sitting in a wheelchair, looking at the curious woman who looked very much out of place. "Are you the teacher that got shot?" she questioned, her voice dry with lack of emotion. The librarian scowled, his hands resting against the wheels at his side, turning them so that he could move away from the rude stranger.

"Isn't it obvious?" he spat, as he pushed himself between an aisle of books. He pulled a few off the shelf that seemed out of order, placing them back in correctly. "Yes, I'm Mr. Carmichael. I'm one of the many victims. I survived, although I'm not sure if this is fortunate or not. Eighteen years has yet to confirm my feelings on my handicap." Lisbeth followed him down the aisle of books, waving to students that smiled at him and placing texts in their appropriate slots.

"I was wondering if you could tell me what happened that day," Lisbeth asked. Carmichael looked at her, his face blank. "Seriously?" he questioned, giving her his full attention. "Listen, kid: every once in a while somebody finds our story, becomes engrossed in it, and starts sticking their head in places they shouldn't be sticking it in. They want to know the ins-and-outs about what happened; know what everybody else doesn't. But that's just it: I don't know anything about what happened. All of a sudden, _BOOM!_ There were shots being fired, screams ringing throughout the school, and I was on the ground, praying for God to spare the children." He began to wheel himself to the next aisle.

"Anything that wasn't mentioned in the articles," Lisbeth pushed, following him. Irritated, Carmichael pulled out a handful of books and placed it on his lap. "Nothing," he said. Lisbeth huffed, her blood beginning to boil. "What about the boy? Don't you have anything to say about the boy?" At this, Carmichael's entire demeanor seemed to break, like a forgotten memory pushed its way towards the front of his mind.

"Why are you tormenting me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Lisbeth raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "Follow me," he instructed, and Lisbeth followed the aged librarian through the shelves of dusty books.

"I don't remember much about him," he said. "He was quiet, reserved, very anti-social. Of course, I'm sure everything you've read about him said the same thing. I don't think I can tell you anything new that you haven't already read." He led her into the non-fiction section of the library, the titles promising facts and real-life accounts from the past. "What about his home life? Do you know anything about his family?" Lisbeth questioned. Carmichael shook his head.

"As I said, I know nothing more about him than what the articles released eighteen years ago," he reiterated. He pushed himself towards the section dedicated to animals, his index finger running over the spines in front of him. "Do you believe in God, miss?" Lisbeth raised an eyebrow at him as he pulled out a thin white book from the shelf.

"I don't know what I believe in," she came back with. Carmichael opened up the book, bright pages with watercolor paintings of exotic birds from around the globe. He smiled down at the photos, running his fingers across the painted wings. He looked up at Lisbeth and handed her the book.

"Read this," he said. "This was the last book he checked out before…" his hand caressed the wheel to his left. Lisbeth opened up the book, pulling out the notecard stuck to the inside cover. "Tate Langdon," she whispered, examining the faded black ink with the killer's own scrawl on it. Carmichael sighed and started pushing himself back towards the front of the library.

"I don't know why you're researching this event," he said, Lisbeth following in his tracks. "I would think after eighteen years it would have just become a tragic scar over this town, over this nation. There's nothing new to discover." "I'm researching Langdon," Lisbeth admitted, tucking the book of birds into her backpack. "There's a chance he did more than this." Carmichael stopped, turning to face Lisbeth.

"What?" he questioned. Lisbeth bit her bottom lip. "There's a chance he could have done more than just shoot up this school," she said. "It's my job to prove it, if it's true that is." Carmichael's eyebrows furrowed into a straight line, his mouth turning down into a frown.

"Yes," he whispered, looking down at the carpet through his thick lenses. He looked up at Lisbeth and gestured for her to lean down closer to him. Hesitantly, she did so, bending her body down so that her face was next to his mouth.

"He didn't believe in God," he whispered. "If you want to know anything about him, you need to understand what it's like to look through the eyes of a person who cannot imagine someone greater than their own self." Lisbeth pulled herself away from Carmichael, who nodded his head at her before turning and wheeling himself away from her.

"Good luck," he said, raising his hand up in farewell, the back of his wheelchair staring at Lisbeth's frozen form. The book weighing heavy in her bag, Lisbeth made her way out of the library and out of the high school, walking the same path Tate Langdon did eighteen years ago, a rifle slung across his back, his hands stained with blood.


	4. Chapter 4: Neighbors

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected authors. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary that was able to piece this all together. Note: Tate is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he's also a serial killer. Hence why we've been thrust into an AU here. Enjoy.

Chapter 4 – Neighbors

Lisbeth stopped at the corner mart not far from the house. She picked up a few scarce groceries – ramen noodles, a two-liter of Coke, a half gallon of milk, and a loaf of bread – along with a fresh pack of cigarettes. Lighting a smoke, Lisbeth began her journey back to the house, her boots stomping on the pavement, her arms carrying her bag of items and her backpack holding onto Tate Langdon's old book of birds.

As she started getting closer to the house, she noticed a black double decker bus pull up to the front, a large man wearing glasses holding a microphone pointing to the house, using wild hand gestures as he told a tale that Lisbeth couldn't make out. The passengers gasped and shrunk in their seats as the tour guide finished his story, and the double decker left its spot at the front of the house and set forth. The tourist snapped pictures of Lisbeth as she walked by, and she flashed them her middle finger to add to their photo albums.

Fumbling with the key to the door, Lisbeth barged her way inside and proceeded to put away her groceries. The house was silent, all of the lights turned off so the natural sunlight could illuminate the house. Lisbeth enjoyed the way the house looked with the lights off; the stained glass windows added colorful rays to the bleak interior. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she poured herself a glass of warm soda and brought herself upstairs to grab her PowerBook.

Violet rolled the small red ball into the shadows, waiting for it to come rolling back out. It did, and Violet smiled. "Come out, Beau," she cooed. "Don't be shy." But the boy in the shadows refused to reveal himself, and Violet heaved a sigh of defeat as she rolled the ball back to him. Vivien sat in the corner, Jonah cradled in her arms, smiling down at his small face. Ben sat in the armchair, his hands neatly folded as his arms rested against his knees, his eyes closed as he listened carefully to the sounds of the house.

"So what are we going to do?" Violet asked, as the ball bounced its way over to her lap. Ben opened his eyes, looking at his daughter to his wife and son. He shook his head. "I don't really know what we can do," he admitted. "This is…unusual." Violet sighed, picking herself up off the attic floor and dusting off the back of her skirt.

"Can't you just scare her off like you did the last family?" she questioned, remembering how awkward it was to see her father in that black latex suit. He turned his attention to Vivien, whose finger was stuck inside Jonah's mouth. She shook her head.

"I've felt her aura," Vivien said. "She's a strong one. She won't easily be frightened." Violet rolled her eyes and stared at the latch leading downstairs to the house. "Well I'm not staying up here forever," she said. "And out of all of us here we're the ones she wouldn't have to worry about. We should at least introduce ourselves." The couple looked at each other, the sound of the stranger bustling about downstairs mixing with Beau's soft breathing and Jonah's whimpers. Ben shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't see why not," he said, getting up from the armchair. He extended his hand towards Vivien who grabbed it and hoisted herself up. "I feel bad," said Vivien, as the Harmon family appeared – as if dragged in by the wind – to the front door, the sun blazing down on their lifeless forms. "We didn't bring any food." Violet rolled her eyes and rapped her knuckles on the door.

Lisbeth jumped when she heard the knock coming from the front of the house. The bowl in the microwave containing the brick of noodles and fill of water rotated within, the gentle hum of the machine echoing throughout the kitchen, her stomach growling as she anticipated her beggar's meal. Her eyebrows knit, Lisbeth stomped over to the front door and stuck her eye into the peephole.

"Who is it?" she called, seeing the three figures on the other side of the lens. "Oh, hi!" Vivien exclaimed, flashing a cheery smile she hoped Lisbeth would see. "We're the Harmons! We live –"

"I don't want whatever you're selling," Lisbeth said. "Please leave." Violet stifled a laugh, both at Lisbeth's comment and her thick accent. "Someone's not a social butterfly," she snickered, crossing her arms over her chest. Vivien's mouth turned down in a frown, and Ben stepped forward closer to the door.

"Um, we're your neighbors and we just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood," he explained, hoping that she was still on the other side. "We'd love to meet you if you have time to chat." Lisbeth scowled, her back pressed against the doorframe. The claimed to be neighbors – perhaps they had lived here long enough to giver her information on Langdon. Lisbeth cracked open the door, her eye popping out of the thin sliver she had created.

The man looked to be in his early to mid-forties, with a thick scruff of a beard with equally dark hair with a strong build. The woman, presumably his wife, was a curvaceous woman with a heart shaped face, strawberry blond waves cascading over her shoulders, holding an infant in her arms. A girl stood next to her, the same heart shaped face as the woman but with a thinner frame and dirty blond locks that felt to her breasts. She looked annoyed and eyed Lisbeth through narrow eyes. Lisbeth opened the door fully.

"Come in," she said, and gestured for the small family to enter the house. Vivien beamed at the young woman, her eyes scanning over the many piercings embedded within her face. She hadn't seen her up close, and with this being the first time she wasn't surprised; the aura around her was fierce, like a dragon's, and it was no wonder that she looked the part.

Ben was taken aback by her, not because of the studs sticking out of her skin or the short cropped black hair that hung on all ends on her head, but by her striking features. Her high cheekbones, her sickeningly thin frame, and her bright eyes that seemed to bore holes into his energy wave. She was, without a doubt, beautiful in her own exotic way.

Violet, however, found the new guest's appearance to be highly overrated. _Who dresses like that anymore?_ She judged, as she looked over Lisbeth's worn Nine Inch Nails band tee-shirt, her dark black jeans with the knees blown out, and duct taped Doc Marten boots. She looked like a bad eighties punk rocker in Violet's opinion, and she already detested the stranger without even speaking a word to her.

"You've really done something with the place," Vivien commented, looking around the house. In truth, Lisbeth had done absolutely nothing but add her belongings and scare groceries. She gave Vivien an irritated look, like her small talk wasn't welcome. Vivien swallowed, clutching Jonah to her chest. Lisbeth led the family into the kitchen, the microwave screen flashing 'END' over and over as her meal sat cooling inside.

"Pardon me," Lisbeth said, going over to the microwave and pulling the bowl out. "I wasn't expecting guests. If I knew I was going to be entertaining I would have picked up tea or coffee while I was out." Her tone was sarcastic, and Vivien noted it as she shoved her bowl of ramen to the side so as not to be rude and eat while she had nothing to offer them. Vivien let out a small chuckle.

"I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced," she apologized, taking a seat at the circular booth underneath the kitchen's bay window. "We saw you walking back and thought that since you were home now might be as good as a time to introduce ourselves." Lisbeth studied the woman, noting the pitch of her voice and the way her head cocked when she looked at Lisbeth, like she was studying her.

"I'm Ben," Ben introduced, holding his hand out to Lisbeth. She looked at his bulky hand, refusing to reach out for it. He let it fall awkwardly to his side. "This is my wife, Vivien, my daughter Violet," he gestured towards the teen blond, sucking on her bottom lip "and our son, Jonah." Lisbeth eyed the infant, the sleeping bundle of life that knew nothing of the world outside. Lisbeth stared at Ben.

"Lisbeth Salander," she introduced. Vivien smiled at her. "That's such a unique name," she complimented. "Are you from around here?" Lisbeth gave Vivien that look again, this time with a hint of "are you serious?" thrown in. "I'm from Sweden," she said. "Stockholm. I'm here on…" she stopped mid-sentence "…business." The Harmons looked at the Swede curiously as her eyes darted out the window, looking out at the California sky. Vivien cleared her throat.

"Oh, that's wonderful," she said. "I've always wanted to visit Sweden." There were a lot of places the woman wanted to visit, but that was now out of the question. She was permanently stuck in the house for the rest of eternity. She bounced her son in her arms gently, looking over at her husband. "Do you know how long you'll be staying?" she questioned, turning her attention back to Lisbeth. She shrugged her thin shoulders.

"It depends," she said. "It could be a week, a month, a year." Her piercing green eyes fell onto the young Harmon daughter, who continued to stare down Lisbeth with narrow eyes. Violet could sense that this new intruder was hiding something, and that whatever business she was up to wasn't a good. Lisbeth pushed herself up onto the counter, her feet dangling from the floor as she examined the Harmon family from her perch.

"Why here?" Violet piped up. "Why are you staying in this house of all places? If you haven't heard, it's haunted." Ben's face went sheet white as he watched his daughter and the Swede lock eyes, staring at each other intently. Lisbeth credited the girl for her bold behavior, but she didn't have time to mess with snotty teenagers when there was a much bigger matter at hand.

"I don't believe in ghosts," Lisbeth said, and Violet chuckled, a smile breaking across her face. Lisbeth scowled at her. "This house is part of my research, for your information." At this she turned her attention to the couple. "Which brings me to a question I have for you: how long have you lived in this neighborhood?" Vivien and Ben exchanged a look.

"Well," Ben began, placing a hand on the back of his neck. "We've been here…"

"For a while," Violet interrupted. "Why do you ask?" Lisbeth gave the girl a cold look, then turned her attention back to Ben. "I was wondering if you were around to tell me about a certain family that was here in the early nineties; the Langdon's. Do you know of them?"

Silence. The only sound that could be heard was the soft sighs coming from Jonah as he slept in his mother's arms. Violet felt like she was going to fall right through the floor, and Ben and Vivien could feel the entire house vibrate the minute "Langdon" fell from her lips. Vivien held her son close to her chest.

"We weren't around for that, no," she said. "That was before our time here." Ben looked down at the counter, his eyebrows knit together, rage filling his body as he thought of the Langdon family, particularly the boy trapped downstairs. "What's the research on?" he questioned, bringing his eyes up to meet hers. "I know a little about what happened here – from the other neighbors. Maybe I could be of some help."

Lisbeth looked between the three Harmons, studying them carefully. Violet looked pale, paler than she already was, where as her parents look frightened and angry. They knew more than they were leading on. Lisbeth met the male Harmon's gaze. "I would appreciate that," she said. "Do you think we could schedule a time for an interview? I would be more prepared." Ben nodded, swallowing so hard that his Adam's apple pierced his skin. Lisbeth slid of the counter and leaned across the island, raising her hand towards him.

"How about tomorrow afternoon. I'll have coffee and sandwiches," she said. Ben looked down at her spindly fingers, and he grasped it in his own, pumping their arms. Lisbeth felt his cold palm against hers, and shivered at his touch. "Sounds good," Ben said. He turned to his family. "I think it's time we leave Lisbeth to her work, guys," he said. Vivien nodded, giving her son a soft smile before picking herself up from the booth.

"It was nice meeting you, Lisbeth," Vivien said, giving the girl a warm smile. Lisbeth gave her a crooked one, but it vanished quickly; something about Vivien didn't sit right with her. But not as much as the younger Harmon bothered her; Violet was still staring intently at Lisbeth, but her face was a sickly shade of green ever since Lisbeth mentioned her purpose at the house. Lisbeth held her ground.

She followed the Harmons to the front door, opening it and ushering them out. As glad as she was to know that at least one of them could be of assistance, she still wanted them away from her. Ben gave her a smirk and raised his hand towards her. "See you tomorrow!" he said, and him and his wife started walking down the porch steps, his arm around her shoulder. Violet followed, but quickly turned on her heel and bounded back up the stairs before giving Lisbeth a cold look.

"You're not welcome here," she sneered, her big brown eyes narrow slits, staring straight at Lisbeth. Lisbeth gave her a blank stare, blinking at the child in front of her. They were roughly the same height, but Lisbeth felt ten times smaller than this girl. "I didn't know I needed an invitation," Lisbeth said. Violet shook her head and ran after her parents as Lisbeth shut the door on the Harmons.


	5. Chapter 5: The Interview

**A/N: **I do not own any of the characters; they belong to their respected owners. I'm just a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note that Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction, he's also a serial killer. Thus we're thrust into an AU here. Enjoy.**  
**

Chapter 5 – The Interview 

Lisbeth woke up much earlier than she would have liked. She shuffled into the bathroom, stripping herself of the scarce clothes on her body before stepping into the porcelain tub, letting the warm water cascade over her skin. Her eyes burned with lack of sleep, her night having been spent starring at the screen of her PowerBook, scanning over the black text of information. But she realized as she finally put her computer to rest at four am, that there was nothing new to be discovered. She felt like Armansky had sent her on a wild goose chase.

Lisbeth slipped into a pair of jeans and a tight fitting black tee-shirt that hugged her sides and accentuated the little curves she had. She ran her hands over her sides, feeling the thick cotton that clung to her skin, and examined herself in the mirror. She was so…ordinary was definitely too dull of a word, and exotic was simply too extreme to describe herself. She was…different. Shoving her feet into her worn pair of Doc Martens, Lisbeth left the Victorian home and made her way to the corner market she had been to previously.

She ended up purchasing lunchmeat, cheese, a head of lettuce, a jar of mayo, a package of Chips Ahoy, coffee, tea, sugar, and cream. She figured that she would at least be able to bribe her guest of answers using food, although she was unsure if a simple sandwich would make him spill any dirt. But it was worth a shot, and Lisbeth took her groceries back to the large house, unpacked her new purchases, put on the coffee, and played a game of online chess with an opponent from India as she awaited the arrival of Ben Harmon.

Ben paced the attic floor, wringing his hands as he went over in his head what he was going to tell Lisbeth about Tate. Vivien sat in the rocking chair with a book in her hand, her glasses perched at the tip of her nose with Violet sitting at her feet doing the same. The two women ignored Ben and his nervous pacing and as he looked at them, he noticed how similar they were and the characteristics they shared. He thoughtlessly wondered if Jonah would ever mimic any of his behaviors when he grew older, but sadly dismissed the thought when he realized that Jonah would never leave his infancy. Ben finally stopped pacing and stood in front of his wife and daughter, his hands placed at his sides in annoyance until Vivien finally looked up from her place in her book.

"What?" the woman asked, looking at her husband with a raised eyebrow. Ben threw his arms up in frustration. "Jesus, Vivien!" he exclaimed, and Violet violently shut her book and gave her father a dirty look. "I'm freaking out here! I have to meet with Lisbeth and I have no idea what I'm going to tell her."

"You shouldn't have offered to talk with her in the first place, dad," Violet sneered. She had only spoken to the living stranger downstairs once and already she disliked her. She didn't know what it was about the young Swede that made her uncomfortable, but Violet knew that her business in the house would bring nothing but trouble. Dabbling into the short life of her ex-boyfriend Tate Langdon could only cause turmoil and disaster, and that's exactly what Lisbeth Salander was about to do. Ben gave his daughter an agitated look.

"Enough, Violet," he said. "The faster we give her what she wants, the sooner she'll leave the house." Ben couldn't stand the thought of a human being preoccupying the house; he was terrified of the fate that would fall upon them if they stayed too long and fell victim to the house's evil. The thought of another lost and tortured soul trapped here with the rest of them for eternity made Ben's stomach twist into knots. "Just tell her what you know," Vivien said calmly. "She'll get what she wants for her research and go. It's simple."

"Not really, sweetheart." The Harmons jumped as they heard the sickeningly familiar voice of Hayden emerge from the shadows of the attic. Her long brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail, her brown eyes masked with black eye make-up circling them, her pink mouth curled into a twisted smile as she intruded on the family's little chat. She eyed Ben, the lover that she once had in the palm of her hand but lost due to the sudden burst of morality that overcame him, looking at the way death had settled over him. Ben's eyes grew wide as the young woman approached him and his family, and his forehead creased in frustration.

"Watch your tone with my wife, Hayden," Ben spat as Vivien sat frozen in her chair. Violet looked on at her father's old mistress with distaste. "What do you want?" Ben questioned. Hayden laughed, caressing the tips of her fingers against Ben's shoulder, making the man shiver.

"Nice little choker you've got there, Ben," she smirked, and Ben turned pale, his hand flying to his throat as his fingers traced the red rope burn that etched itself into his skin, the last mark she gave Ben that would set everything into motion. Hayden laughed and bit her bottom lip as she noticed the effect she _still_ had on Ben after all this time. "I'm simply here to offer you my advice," she explained, studying Ben's face.

"We don't want your advice," Vivien scowled, and Hayden gave her a cold look before returning her attention back to her ex-lover. "I hear you're going to have a little chat with the girl downstairs about the monster in the basement. What's she on about?" Even though Ben hated Hayden with every ounce of his body, he knew that she was genuinely concerned and afraid about the situation at hand. Ben sighed and rubbed his temples.

"She's investigating the shooting," Ben told her. "I don't know why, but she wants to know more about Tate. I figure if I just give her the general run-down about him from the therapy session I had with him, she'll be satisfied and leave." Hayden bit her bottom lip, looking down at the attic floor while Vivien and Violet sat in silence. Ben sighed, shook his head and made way towards the exit from the attic.

"I'm going to go talk to her," he announced. "I'll be back shortly. Hayden, you should go now." Hayden scowled at Ben, but she disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. Ben smiled at his wife and daughter. "I'll tell you everything when I get back," he assured, and his wife waved him away while Violet sat twiddling her fingers in her lap.

The knock on the door startled Lisbeth, and she exited out of her game of chess and made haste for the door. Looking through the peephole, she saw the large build of Ben Harmon staring back at her, giving her a warm smile. She opened the door, gesturing for him to come inside.

"Thanks for inviting me over," Ben said, making his way into his old home. "I hope this isn't any trouble." Lisbeth shook her head, leading him into the kitchen. "No, this is perfect," she said. "I made coffee." She poured him a mug and handed it to him, and Ben shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, but Lisbeth pushed it towards him.

"It's rude to not offer your guests coffee in Sweden and even ruder to not accept it," Lisbeth explained, glaring him down. Ben swallowed and took the mug from her, watching as she sipped from her own. She started walking out of the kitchen. "There's an old study upstairs," she said. "I figure we can talk up there with a more professional setting." Lisbeth lead her guest up the old stairs, Ben following behind her back to the very office that he conducted sessions with Tate Langdon in. He wondered if he should tell her this fact, but decided that he would wait until the interview officially started.

Ben took on the role as patient, sitting on the elongated couch across from the large armchair that Lisbeth took refuge in. He thought it awkward and felt incredibly small sitting across from the strange Swede, especially with her many piercings and black hair that was pulled back in a stiff nub of a ponytail. She sat cross-legged in the armchair, her PowerBook in her lap, opening it up to a fresh Word document.

"I'm going to ask you some information about yourself first, is that okay?" she asked, her fingers positioned over the keys. Ben nodded. "What is your full name, your age, and your profession?" Ben crossed one leg over the other.

"My name is Benjamin Harmon, better known as Ben. I'm fifty years old and I'm a therapist," he answered. Lisbeth's fingers flashed across the keyboard. Her pierced eyebrow rose when he answered. "You're fifty?" she questioned, astounded by his age. Ben cracked a smile and let out a soft chuckle. "Yes, I'm fifty," he said. "Is that on the record or off?" Lisbeth turned a slight shade of pink and her eyes darted back to her screen.

"How long have you lived in this neighborhood?" she asked. Ben bit his bottom lip. "A while," he responded, and Lisbeth looked up from the screen with a scowl on her face. That was _not_ the type of answer she was looking for. Ben sighed. "I would say about eighteen or nineteen years," he said, going on the notion that he was around when Tate was alive and living in the house. He was actually unaware of how long he had been dead; every day was one continuous today and he had to check the news to catch up with the month and sometimes even the year. Death had a funny way of messing with time.

"Do you know anything about the Langdon family and their association with this house?" Lisbeth asked, her heart beginning to beat as her questions dove into what she really wanted answered. Ben sat there quietly for a while, thinking. How was he going to answer this?

He knew the Langdons because he lived in the house, listened to Tate Langdon's psychotic thoughts, and his mother harassed his family. Tate proceeded to rape his wife, all the while seducing his daughter, and then impregnate his wife with a demon child. How could he tell her that?

"I used to hold sessions with Tate in the early nineties," Ben lied, which was still somewhat the truth. Lisbeth typed away. "Can you tell me what he was like from your sessions, or are you still bound my doctor-patient confidentiality even in his death?" Ben wanted to laugh at her question; nothing ever went away even after your death – he knew that all too well. But she didn't, and if he wanted to get her out of the house, he was going to have to break a few rules.

"I can tell you about him," he said, "mainly because you're trying to solve…what was it you're trying to find out again?" Lisbeth rolled her eyes. "Around the time that Tate Langdon shot up the school, the bodies of teenage girls that went to Westfield High School as well as the other neighboring high schools were showing up along the highway. There might be a connection to the murders and Langdon, but we're not sure. That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Ben's forehead creased into a frown. He had never heard about the murders; he would have definitely remembered there having been a mention of deaths like that, even if he wasn't really living in the state of California yet. The news would have spread across the nation. But Ben couldn't ask her to delve more into the information, because according to his story, he had lived in the neighborhood during the time of the murders, so it must have been old news.

"Oh," he simply said. "I remember that happening. It wasn't very…it wasn't mentioned much." Lisbeth nodded her head. "The police wanted to keep it under wraps because they couldn't nail down a suspect. They believed it to be Langdon, but by the time they made the connection he was already dead and according to the reports his family had moved out of the house and they couldn't gather any evidence, especially since all his items had been burned after his burial."

Ben leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands together. "I see," he whispered, the cogs in his brain whirring. "That's interesting." He believed he had the boy figured out, but apparently he was wrong; so very, very wrong. He would probably gain more out of this interview than Salander would. Lisbeth eyed the man, watching as his facial expression turned from curiosity to distress. What was he hiding? What did he know? Or maybe, she wondered, what _didn't_ he know? Lisbeth jotted down his change of mood, and continued with her interview.

"Since you can tell me about your sessions, do so. Tell me what he was like. The reports in the papers didn't really cover much about him," she said. Ben closed his eyes, the room he was in looking exactly the same except he was in the chair Salander was in and Tate Langdon was in his position.

"What you have to understand," Ben began, opening his eyes to face the young woman. "was that this happened a long, long time ago." Lisbeth waited, her hands poised over the black keys. Ben took a breath and began.

"It was the fall of 1993, and my wife and I had just moved to California from Boston. We were getting ready to start a family here, and I was ready to settle down and start my life as a full time therapist. The Langdons were friendly people, so they seemed, and Constance Langdon, Tate's mother, enjoyed barging into our home and inviting herself in, just like her daughter, Adelaide. They liked to know every bit of our business, and when I mentioned that I was a therapist seeking a place to work, she offered me her empty study that I could conduct sessions in."

Ben opened his arms to the room. "It was this room, funny enough." He gave her a soft smile, and Lisbeth took his interjection to quickly type up the story so far. She nodded at him to continue when she was finished.

"So I took Constance's offer and set up shop here on one condition: that I see her son Tate for free. I couldn't say no since she was giving me this place to work, so I accepted her agreement. The first time I saw Tate, he was quiet. He sat picking at the hole in his jeans, and I noticed this snake ring on this thumb that looked incredibly menacing. I tried to ask him questions, but he was extremely reserved. At first, I thought he didn't like me. In fact, I _knew_ he didn't like me. I knew it would take time for him to open up to me."

"I figured it was mommy issues; all boys have mommy issues. And when I brought up the subject of his mother, he told me all these terrible things about Constance. He told me about the loss of his father, who abandoned him and his sister, and the fact that his mother was a…well in his terms, a "cocksucker". There was an obvious gap between the mother and child, and I took that into consideration. But there was more than just the problems with his mother. There were, of course, problems at school."

"It seemed that Tate suffered from, what I deduced, as Dissociative Identity Disorder, commonly called D.I.D. He had these visions during his time at school about shooting the kids in his class, but it wasn't because he hated them. It was because he wanted to free them from the "filth of the world". I didn't understand him; he made it seem like he was some sort of savior to the people when really he longed for blood. There was obviously something wrong with him, and I knew that after he started telling me these violent thoughts that he was dangerous. I put him on medication to help with the thoughts to see how that would work out for him."

"And how did they work out for him?" Lisbeth questioned, her fingers running over the keys as she caught up with Ben's story. Ben rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "He wouldn't take them," he said. Lisbeth frowned at him. "He was afraid that he wouldn't be able to get hard because of them," Ben explained.

Lisbeth bit her bottom lip, trying not to laugh. She wrote down Ben's note and nodded at him to continue. He couldn't tell her about his association with Violet, seeing as technically Violet was just an infant and couldn't be in a romantic relationship with Tate at the time. So he decided to leave that part out entirely.

"Really, that's as much as I can tell you. We stopped our sessions after he said he wouldn't take the medication, and if he wasn't going to follow my instructions or submit to further treatment there was no point in him seeing me to waste both our time. Constance let me keep the space for my office until I set up somewhere else. As for Tate, what happened to him can be found in your local library."

"Where did you move to?" Lisbeth questioned. Ben's eyes darted to the large window looking out over the yard. "I retired," he said. "After the birth of our daughter, I realized that I had enough money and I wanted to stay with her completely." Lisbeth raised an eyebrow at him. "You retired at 32?" she questioned. "Isn't that a little…young?"

Ben swallowed. "I didn't work for free, Lisbeth," he said. "It was close to five hundred dollars an hour to see me. I saw many prestigious people in my office that sat in this very seat." He pet the arm rest of the couch. Lisbeth typed his reply. "Can you tell me anything that stood out about him? Something he may have said or hinted at?" Lisbeth questioned. Ben studied for a moment, thinking about the sessions he had so long ago. He looked at Lisbeth.

"Something about Indians," he said, and Lisbeth cocked her head at him. "He spoke about the Indians and the way they believed that evil spirits lived in their blood, and they would cut themselves to set them free. He said…he said he enjoyed the blood." He looked up at the young Swede and saw her lips turned down in a frown. She furiously typed down Ben's reply, her fingers pounding down on the delicate keys, the harsh click-clack sound filling the room. She slammed her PowerBook shut and stood from her spot.

"Thank you, Mr. Harmon," she said, looking at the man. Ben looked at her, bewildered, and stood from his spot. "That's it?" he asked. "That was pretty quick." He tried to give her a smile, but she brushed past him and out of the study. Ben followed after her. She ran down the stairs, one at a time, and opened the front door, looking down at the ground.

"I appreciate you coming over and letting me interview you," Lisbeth said. "If I have any more questions, I'll contact you. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me." She didn't even look up to meet his eyes. Ben stood in the doorway.

"Oh, okay," he whispered. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and Lisbeth shuddered underneath the ice-cold touch of the man. Her blood burned. "I'll see you around, Lisbeth," Ben said, and he walked down the steps and made way towards the fence, the farthest he could ever go.


	6. Chapter 6: The Spider's Thoughts

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction; he's also a serial killer. Hence we're thrust into an AU here. Enjoy. ~I'm sorry this is incredibly short. I was thinking about making this into a sub-chapter but realized it was too important to the plot to those who don't read the sub-chapters.

Chapter 6 – The Spider's Thoughts 

He was unaware how long he had been basking in the darkness; time was irrelevant to the boy since his death. Sometimes he wondered how old he would be at that moment in time had he not been cursed to be a teenager for the rest of eternity, and at times he was glad that his blond hair would never catch grays or his smooth skin break out into wrinkles. Other times, he wished that he could fear death instead of having it be an annoying reminder of his constant forever.

He lay on his back on the cold cement floor of the basement, looking up at the empty ceiling, watching a spider move across the smooth surface and find itself a nook in the corner of the room. He began to watch it begin its work, spinning the silk thread into intricate designs to create its home and its primary source for catching food. The boy always thought spiders were such fascinating creatures, and he often identified himself with them; lonely creatures that longed to create, to build, to destroy.

The footsteps upstairs made a grin spread across his face. He could hear the stranger's footfalls as she made her way into the kitchen, the beeping of the microwave, the crash of the water hit against the metal sink. He melted himself into the house's foundation, his eyes scanning as he watched her run a hand through her hair, her hand picking up a slice of microwaved pizza, stuffing it in her mouth and chewing, her eyes closed in thought.

She was hideously attractive, her body tiny and thin, her collarbone jutting out of her skin and her fingers long. He black hair was cut in patches, her eyebrow pierced with a silver loop, and her lip had a matching ring sticking out the bottom. Her eyes, when opened, were a shocking shade of green, mixed with grays and browns, and the boy wondered curiously if she had ever been kissed. She seemed unapproachable, and her exterior radiated that of toughness, but the inside of a person can very much be different than that presented on the outside. He was a prime example of that.

The young woman picked up a glass filled with milk and made her way into the living room, and the boy followed her, invisible, still, and cautious. She fell onto the maroon colored sofa, picking up a silver PowerBook that lay to her side and opened it, immediately beginning to type away. He looked over her shoulder to see what she was looking at and saw white pages with black text facing him. It was a document of notes, carelessly placed on the page as if they were being typed as the session was still happening. His eyes scanned over the text, trying to find key words, and he saw the initials T.L. repeated over and over.

"T.L.," the boy thought, cocking his head as he watched her cut and paste blocks of text, expanding words and fixing typos. "Those are my initials." He smiled, standing back from the woman who continued to clean up her page of notes, and he made his way back into the basement.

She was here for him, that was for sure. The minute she stepped her big foot into the door of the house he knew that all she wanted was him. Wasn't that what they all wanted though? To have some part of him, some sort of proof that he existed?

For as long as he had been trapped in the house, Tate had always encountered an intruder breaking into the house, scampering up to his old room in search of some article of clothing or notebook containing information that could point out the exact break in psyche. But they always left empty handed with pants covered in piss when he showed up in the doorway, skull dripping with blood, a smirk plastered over his lips. That was his game, his personal entertainment that the other spirits of the house let him have. It was his story so he should be able to deal with it as he may.

But lately no one has showed up to the house, not since the early 2000s. No, he was old news, and no one cared about the deranged psycho killer that brought a machine gun to his school. His actions had been copied and perfected since his death, and he was no longer the worst of the bunch.

If only they knew the rest of it.

Tate enjoyed blood. The look, the feel, the smell, the taste; there was something about it that made his whole body shake with excitement. Perhaps it was the bright red color, or the sticky feel between his fingertips. Maybe the deep smell that radiated from it mixed with the copper taste that dripped onto his tongue. He thirsted for blood, like one of those vampires from a Victorian novel, but he did not live on it. What he lived for were the screams.

It made him laugh the way they shrieked. When they begged for mercy, it made his stomach flutter with a million butterflies. The sparkle in their eyes as they looked up at him, knowing that yes, this was the end of it all. The color their face turned the second the bleach hit the back of their throat…

He remembered the first time and the last time. Sometimes he wondered if he would still be able to pull it off in his death, and he realized that yes, it was possible. The problem was, the last time he had buttered himself up a victim she had ended up perishing by her own hand and was thus trapped within the confines of the house. He could not kill what was already dead.

The problem, he realized, was the fact that he couldn't leave the property. He couldn't take that long walk with her in the moonlight, letting her talk about how she longed to find true love and how maybe, just maybe she would find it soon. He couldn't lead her to a secluded spot he had "heard about but not really been to" and take her there. The way he would caress her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her, then twist her neck so she passed out but not quite kill her yet.

Tate sat himself into the old rocking chair in the corner of the basement. He leaned against its back, letting the curved bottoms bring him back and forth. It was a soothing process that Tate enjoyed when he felt particularly overwhelmed with the thoughts of murder and when his temper was just on the verge of making his head explode. It relaxed him, brought him back down to Earth, back to the basement and the horrid realization that he was forever trapped.

He began to hum. The tune was not something that could easily be recognized because it was one that he made up all on his own. He did not know why the tune liked to escape from his lips as he sat rocking or when he had made it up, but it helped him with his relaxation. The images that flashed through his mind behind his closed eyelids contained did not images of waterfalls or rolling meadows.

They consisted of the darkness; the darkness that he believed death would bring but didn't. He dreamed of the nothingness he wished had greeted him when the bullets pierced his chest and popped his lungs. The utter disappointment of not falling into nothingness hurt more than the fact that he was given, what Moira deemed "a second chance at making things right". He had rolled his eyes at the daft maid.

But as he thought about the maid's ludicrous idea, Tate realized that maybe she wasn't so wrong after all. Perhaps he was being given a second chance.

A second chance at perfecting the slaughter – a chance at tying up loose ends.

He knew exactly who would make the perfect victim.


	7. Chapter 7: Fragility

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction, he is also a serial killer. Hence why we're thrust into an AU. Enjoy.

**WARNING: This chapter contains mention and scenes of rape. Please procede with caution.**

Chapter 7 – Fragility

"Today I will be beautiful," she whispered, as she ran her hands over the net stockings that covered the smooth skin of her legs. She let her nimble fingers run themselves over the crease of her uniform, the cotton fabric giving her skin air to breathe and settling nicely on the curves of her body. She smiled as she approached the mirror in one of the guest bedrooms, gently patting the bright red curls that sat on top of her head.

Moira O'Hara was stunning. From her porcelain skin, her thick red hair, her brilliant blue eyes, to the pink lips that curled themselves up in a smirk when her mind began to fill with thoughts that would make a priest sweat. Today she was twenty-six, light as a feather and hungry for love. Her body craved the touch of another, but the bruises that pressed themselves into her skin told the story of a touch that belonged to the hands of a sinner.

At first she believed that it was an act of rage. She understood the pain that resided in his body, and she forgave him for lashing out at her, for forcing her down and taking advantage of her. In fact, she was almost glad that it had happened. She had often wondered what he hid underneath the thick sweaters and torn jeans, and even though it was under horrid circumstances, her curiosity was fulfilled. The first time it happened, he apologized. He broke down into tears and told her that he was sorry for his actions, that he was just so angry and sad and lonely and that he took it out on her. Her heart ached for the poor boy, and she kissed him on the cheek and told him that she forgave him. He had smiled at her, dimples framing his face and his brown eyes sparkling, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat.

Days passed until the next attack. She was in the bathroom hunched over the bathtub, pushing back curls from her face when she felt a tug on the back of her collar that sent her backwards. She felt the weight of another straddle her and start tearing at her clothes, and she wiggled underneath him until she looked up to see his head of shaggy blond hair dipping itself between her legs.

"What are you doing?" she had exclaimed, but he looked up at her with those eyes that had once sparkled and now held that of anger. Fear flooded her body as he started to work on her, and she lay there on the ground, waiting for it to be over. No longer was she curious, now she was frightened. After he was done, he did not apologize or break into tears; instead he left her on the floor with blood between her legs and disappeared. She was left to clean herself up and scrub her own blood off of the floor.

Moira spent hours afterwards shaking, rubbing her arms and legs and letting the pain wash over her. She ached and she felt like she was disappearing, and that she did. She melted into the foundations of the house and waited there until she was ready to emerge. She was unsure how long it was until she actually did, but it was the sound of his voice calling out her name that made her do so. Moira didn't know why, but she felt obliged to, like it was her job.

"Listen, Moira," he said, approaching her cautiously. She stood stock still, daring not to move an inch. He smiled at her sweetly, like he did after the first time. "What happened before…I just got carried away. There's been so much stuff going on with me and I've been so _angry_. I took it out on you and I didn't mean it. I just wanted to say I was sorry. Can you forgive me?"

Moira eyed the young boy up and down, watching the waves radiate off of him as he stood in front of her. He was lying; he wasn't sorry, not even a little bit. But she bit her bottom lip and nodded her head, and with that he wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her close to him. She gasped and he took that as an invitation to press his lips against hers and slip his tongue into her mouth.

"Mmm," he whispered, as he broke away from her. "You taste so good, Moira." He did it again, letting his lips explore her collarbone and his hands work their way towards the back of her dress, running over the curves of her bum. She shivered at his touch, and she felt her body go ice cold.

_No_, she wanted to say, but she couldn't. She felt bound and frozen as he began to touch her, gently at first and then gradually growing with more force. He had pushed her up against the wall, running his hand up her thigh and feeling for her panties, running his fingers against the slit with his eyes boring into hers.

"You're not even wet," he frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. Instantly he jammed his fingers into her and she yelped in pain, his lips curling into a smile as his tongue slid against them. "Better," he whispered, and he crushed his mouth against hers as he undid the belt on the waist of his jeans. Moira shut her eyes, squeezing them shut as tightly as she could, little bursts of color forming behind her eyelids. Her brain went fuzzy as he plunged himself into her, as he grunted into her ear, felt his hot breath on her neck.

She dared not cry, she dared not speak, she just let him thrust up into her roughly, let his hands bruise the flesh on her hips as he took her as his own. The minutes felt like hours, and when he finally let out a hefty grunt and she felt him spill himself into her, she let her eyelids flutter open and felt him lean against her, spent. Moira didn't touch him, she just let him catch his breath until he pulled out and stuffed himself back into his jeans. She buttoned up her blouse and he watched her intently as she did so. When she was done, he pressed his lips against her cheek and smiled at her.

"I could get used to this," he smirked, and he turned on his heel and left. Moira collapsed onto the floor and wept. Her body ached, her heart hurt, and she knew there was no way out of the situation she had thrown herself into. If only she hadn't let him off so easily the first time, maybe this wouldn't have happened. She wondered if she could keep herself older so he wouldn't throw himself onto her, but she realized that it was useless; he saw her as a young woman, he _wanted_ to see her as a young woman. And because of that, she was bound in this form and vulnerable to his actions.

It became routine for Moira. The minute he whispered her name, she dropped everything and submitted to him. The bathroom, numerous bedrooms, the desk in the study, the couches, even the island in the kitchen; any surface he could pin her up against he would throw himself on her and she would close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else. She didn't tell a soul about the abuse, afraid that the pressure of the house would collapse underneath the added turmoil and the fear that his anger would cascade into a heavy tide and he would hurt her more than he already was.

Although, the young maid realized, he wasn't _always_ an animal. There were times when he was gentle, when he whispered sweet words into her ear. He knew the spots that made her groan the loudest and he liked to hit them as often as he could when he had her. She didn't want him, but he knew how to make her stomach turn in disgust and pleasure as he slipped inside of her and kept her wrists bound. It became something that she believed to be a burden that was brought onto her for the rest of her days.

And then _she_ came in the house, stomping in with her heavy boots and filling the fridge with her food, parading around the house naked as if it was her very own. Moira loathed her, with her spiked hair and her pierced face. She was disgusting and a freak, and she wanted her out of her house immediately.

He was something wrong as he thrust into her with the usual force, but there was a look in his eye that noticed wasn't quite right. He wasn't focused, he wasn't settling in on the blankness of her face or the glint of sadness that sparkled in her eyes; he was thinking about something, or some_one_, else. He finished, regardless of his behavior, and as he rolled over on his back and Moira lifted the sheets up to cover her exposed breasts in embarrassment, he said,

"Do you think she's a good fucker?" Moira felt her body grow cold, and she turned her head towards the boy next to her. "Wh-what?" she stuttered. He looked at her, his face filled with annoyance. "The girl," he said. "The living one in the house. Do you think she's a good fucker?" Moira's eyes darted to look up at the ceiling and at the mahogany fan that sat over them. She swallowed and he sighed, getting up from the bed and gathering his clothes. She watched him.

Why did he care? Wasn't she enough? Her heart started to thump as she thought about him taking advantage of another girl, and she felt like throwing up all over the sheets. Would he do it? Could he do it? He had certainly done it before; what was standing in his way now? She scowled as she watched him dress and once he slipped into his shoes, he turned to her and gave her a half-smile.

"Until we meet again," he said, and he disappeared out of the bedroom. Moira lay there, naked underneath the thin sheets, staring up at the ceiling, his question playing over and over in her head. He wanted _her_, and she couldn't deny it. She was becoming too boring and he was getting sick of her; he wanted someone new, and _she_ was the perfect replacement.

Moira didn't see him for days, and she kept her eyes on the young woman who decided to nest into her home. Moira hated the way she left her dirty dishes in the sink and waited until there were no more plates to finally wash them, how the trash bin overflowed with garbage and how she ashed out her cigarettes into the bathroom sink. She was dirty and vile and Moira couldn't understand his reasoning for being attracted to her.

She waited for him to call for her, to push her onto the bed and force himself onto her. She started to worry that he was biding his time, and that his next attack would be even more horrific. But he did not appear before her or call out of her name; she was left to do her chores and clean up after the trash that resided in the house. Moira tried to spy on her work, try and figure out what it was that she was up to, but she wasn't as sneaky as the other spirits were and left that up to the others to figure out. They would tell her in due time, and she saw Ben follow the woman up the stairs and into the study where they conducted a session behind locked doors.

_I bet she wants to fuck him_, she thought, furrowing her eyebrows at the closed door as she waited outside it. Finally, she pressed herself up against the wooden door and listened to the muffled voices between them. The young woman had a gruff voice, thick with a European accent that she couldn't pinpoint.

"_Do you know anything about the Langdon family and their association with this house?"_ the woman had asked. Moira's stomach dropped and she listened to the silence as she waited for Ben to reply. What did this bitch want to know about the Langdons? Finally, she got her answer.

"_Around the time that Tate Langdon shot up the school, the bodies of teenage girls that went to Westfield High School as well as the other neighboring high schools were showing up along the highway. There might be a connection to the murders and Langdon, but we're not sure. That's what I'm trying to figure out."_

Moira ran from the door and locked herself in the bathroom. She vomited into the toilet, her eyes flooding with tears that dripped into her sick. _No no no no no_, she thought, her heart about to burst from her chest. She had no doubt in her mind that Tate Langdon was a monster; he was a liar, a murder, and a rapist. Now he was a serial killer?

She threw up in the porcelain toilet again and let her cheek rest against the seat. She could easily imagine the young man charming his way into the arms of innocent girls, buttering them up for slaughter. But Moira did not want to believe it, she tried to force herself to shoo the images out of her head of Tate letting the edge of a blade run against the cool skin of a young girl, the blood splattering onto his face.

Moira flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and splashed cold water onto her face. She sat in the bathtub and cried.

Tate was sexually abusing her. She hated him for the crimes he had committed against herself and against others. But there was a small part that screamed inside her that she cared for him. This tiny portion in her heart that yearned for his touch, his attention, and the feel of his breath against the shell of her ear.

Moira O'Hara was in love with her assailant.


	8. Chapter 8: Battle

******A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with a wide vocabulary and enough time on their hands to throw this together. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he is also a serial killer. Hence why this is an AU we're being thrust into. Enjoy.

Chapter 8 – Battle

Moira scrubbed at the tile floor in the kitchen. Lisbeth was out doing god only knew what, probably more research, and it gave Moira time to clean the house without her knowing. Of course, Lisbeth was starting to catch on that her wrappers and pizza boxes were disappearing, but all she did was set up security monitors around the house. They didn't quite catch the paranormal activity going on inside, much to Moira and the other spirit's delight.

Small beads of sweat formed on the young maid's forehead as her hands beat down on the tile, the brush giving way to the dirt and grime that formed in the crevices. They were even dirtier with _her_ around, her boots tracking in mud. She scowled as she thought about her and her bony body and choppy hair. What was so special about _her_?

Moira was beautiful; she had curves and red lips and long hair and glittering eyes – she was everything a man wanted and more. And _her_? She had a flat chest with equally flat hair with pale skin and gaunt features. Why would he want Lisbeth when he had her?

"Hello," he said, and the maid jumped, electric waves running through her veins. She turned to see Tate leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen, his brown eyes watching her intently as she was hunched over the floor. "Hi," she whispered, throwing the brush into the dirty, soapy water and standing up. She patted down the wrinkles in her uniform and brushed a piece of hair out of her face. Moira gave him a weak smile and he returned it, watching her body intently. She swallowed.

"Been keeping busy?" he questioned, as Moira moved over to the sink and dumped the water down the stainless steel drain. The water rushing down the pipes echoed in the kitchen. She shrugged. "Usual stuff," she said. "Why do you ask?" He mimicked her, shrugging his broad shoulders, the thick black sweater clinging to his chest. "Curious," he breathed. Tate watched her as she cleaned out the bucket and the bristles on the brush before returning it to the cabinet underneath the sink. She turned to him.

"Is there something I can help you with, Tate?" she asked, her heart beating. He was just starring at her, his expression blank but his eyes filled with hunger. He looked down to the floor, his lips curling up in a smile, his straight white teeth flashing and the dimples in his cheeks digging in and expanding. Moira almost fainted from his beauty.

"There's always something, Moira," he said, smirking at her. She stood there and he approached her, reaching out a hand to stroke her face. Her breath hitched in her throat and he chuckled lowly. "Are you afraid of me?" he whispered. She didn't move. "I would be afraid of me too." His eyes fell deeply into hers and for a second, Moira believed that he was going to take her there on the clean kitchen floor. But his hand fell from her face and he turned his back to her, moving back towards the corner of the island. He leaned against the marble corner and started tracing patterns on top.

"I wanted to ask a favor of you, actually," Tate said, his eyes keeping time with the circle he traced. Moira licked her lips. "What kind of favor?" she asked, watching him. He was drawing figure eights across the gray stone, the pupils in his eyes growing as his concentration increased.

"I want you to fuck the new girl," he said, not even bothering to look up at her. Moira felt like melting into the floor, and it took all of her will power not too. "Wh-what?" she stuttered, as she looked at him, his face blank. He stopped his patterns and looked up at the redhead.

"I said I want you to fuck the new girl," he said, standing up straight. He began to make his way towards her, and suddenly she realized just how big and tall he was. His shadow fell over her and she felt smaller than she had ever felt before. "Why?" she whispered, her eyes struggling to keep tears from falling, her body shaking.

"You're the test drive," he explained. "I want to know what she's like. I want you to tell me exactly how she feels." Moira felt her stomach turn sour at his words; he was sick. "Besides," he continued, his hand resting on the curve in her side. "I want to see a show."

-x-

Lisbeth fell backwards onto the bed, her back cracking as it broke the mattress underneath her. She was exhausted and her leads were getting her nowhere. The story about Tate Langdon shooting up Westfield High School was old news and there was no one who was looking into it; it was an open and shut investigation with a dead murderer. But the case on the girls that showed up along the highway with their bodies violated and their throats burned out was a case they locked away.

No policeman or detective dared take on the cold case on the girls because the trail was dried up; there were no leads, no evidence, nothing to nail the killer. And the prime suspect was dead. Trying to figure it out eighteen years later was ridiculous and hopeless. Lisbeth was unsure of why she was even on the case at all. What was Armansky playing at?

She rolled over onto her stomach, wiggling up on the mattress and grabbing a pack of cigarettes on her nightstand. She pulled out a smoke, lighting it and inhaling. Her head was throbbing, and she felt like she was going nowhere with the investigation. There was no lead to say that Tate Langdon was the murderer back in the early 90's. No interview with his past psychiatrist or looking through a picture book was going to prove that.

Puffing on her cigarette, Lisbeth reached over for her backpack where she had kept Westfield High's copy of _The Animal Kingdom: Birds_, the last book that Tate Langdon was noted to check out. She pulled out the notecard taped to the front, looking at the loopy scrawl of the killer. She frowned down at it.

Flipping through the pages, she noticed that the once glossy pages were now dull and gray. And they were extremely brittle, and she felt as if the pages might just rip underneath her touch. Slamming the book shut, Lisbeth tossed it in the corner of her bed, rubbing her temples, the smoke tendrils surrounding her. "Fucking bastard," she whispered, closing her eyes.

Moira O'Hara watched in the doorway as Lisbeth looked over the book she pulled out of her bag. Moira remembered Tate reading it once, and then Violet; now she was in possession of it as well. She swallowed, wrinkling her nose as she looked at the young woman sucking the smoke into her lungs. Tate wanted Moira to seduce her, but she felt her stomach flip upside down just thinking about doing it. She took a deep breath; _just do it,_ she thought. _Just go with it._

"Ashes are hard to get off those sheets," Moira said, leaning in the doorway. Lisbeth jumped, dropping her cigarette on the bed. "Shit!" she exclaimed, picking it up quickly, the cherry just about to break off the tip. Moira lifted her lips up into a smirk, walking into the room, her hips swaying behind her.

"That was close," she said, getting closer to the bed. She stretched herself over the bed like a cat, her crystal colored eyes boring into Lisbeth's face. The Swede stared at the redheaded woman in front of her, her eyes wide with anger and curiosity. "Who are you?" she grumbled, staring the woman down. There was no use in backing down. Moira smiled.

"Oh, how rude of me," she said, standing up and straightening out her uniform. "I'm Moira O'Hara. I've been cleaning your house for you." She gave Lisbeth a dazzling smile, her red lips vibrant against her porcelain skin. Lisbeth furrowed her eyebrows at the maid.

"I didn't hire a maid," she said. "I don't have money to pay you. Please leave." Moira laughed, moving her way to the side of the bed, climbing on top of it and crawling towards Lisbeth. The cigarette in her hand had now stubbed itself out, and Moira plucked it from her fingers. "Nasty habit," she said, leaning in close to Lisbeth's face. She reached over and dropped it in the glass ashtray on the nightstand.

"Get out of here," Lisbeth growled her hands reaching forward to push Moira away from her. But the redhead grabbed onto Lisbeth's hand and held them in her own, pushing them into her chest and crashing her lips against hers. Lisbeth gasped as the strange young woman advanced on her, letting her lips be assaulted by the other woman.

Lisbeth was not shy to a woman's touch; she had no preference when it came to genders sexually – she merely decided who she wanted to fuck when she wanted to fuck. Moira O'Hara was a seriously gorgeous woman, one that many a man, even woman, have most likely lusted over. Lisbeth was not shy to this desire. She closed her eyes, letting Moira slip her tongue into her mouth.

Moira smiled against Lisbeth's lips, breaking apart for air. She released Lisbeth's hands, letting her own roam against the fabric of her shirt, squeezing her breasts in her hands. Moira noted the size of them in her palm, and she wanted to laugh. _Tate will never enjoy you_, she thought, as she leaned over to kiss Lisbeth again. The woman moaned into her mouth, letting her hands run over the curves of Moira's body, feeling her cotton uniform beneath her fingertips.

Tate Langdon stood in the doorway, watching as the two women explored each other. His mouth was in a tight line, his dark brown eyes glaring at them as Moira slipped her hand underneath Lisbeth's shirt. _Good_, Tate thought. _Just like that_.

Moira felt the smooth skin on Lisbeth's abdomen, letting herself be touched in return. Her touch was entirely different than Tate's; delicate, gentle with just a touch of a push against her skin. Moira slowly undid the buttons of her blouse, smiling down at Lisbeth, who looked up at her and swallowed.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Lisbeth said, although her body was ready for whatever Moira O'Hara wanted to do with her. Moira laughed, slipping the top of her uniform over her shoulders, exposing a silk, pink bra against her chest. "Oh don't be silly," she teased, leaning over to kiss Lisbeth. But she pushed her away, letting Moira scramble off the bed.

"No," Lisbeth said, composing herself. Moira scowled at her. "Don't you want me?" she hissed, her top gaping open. Lisbeth stared her down, her nostrils flaring. "Get out of this house," she said, getting up from the bed, beginning to stalk over to the red-haired woman. Moira sneered at her, turning on her heel, leaving the room. Lisbeth followed her down the stairs, watching her open and shut the front door. She fell against the banister, groaning.

Appearing in the basement, Moira balled her hands into fists, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Her body was shaking with rage at the rejection Lisbeth had shown her. How _dare_ she? How dare she turn down Moira O'Hara? Her eyes glued themselves to the basement walls, and she wanted to punch a hole right through it. But she knew nothing would happen; nothing ever did.

"I expected better from you." Moira turned, her breathing heavy, to see Tate sitting on the bottom stair of the basement. His hands were clasped, forearms resting on his knees, as he stared at his thumbs. "I thought you knew what the fuck you were doing." His voice was laced with malice, and suddenly the anger turned to fear. Moira swallowed.

"You saw what happened," she said. "I know you were there." Tate turned his head to her, his eyes shining. "Of course I was there," he said, getting up from the step. "I saw you letting her push you the fuck away." He stomped over to her, stopping just inches from her face. Moira's breath hitched in her throat, looking at the anger sparkling in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I really couldn't do anything about it." Tate sneered at her, turning on his heel, his back towards her. "Yeah, sure you couldn't," he said sarcastically. He turned back to her. "You can _always_ do something," he said, slowly making his way towards her. She stood there, frozen.

Tate got close to her, putting his hand on her side. The fabric of her uniform felt warm on the palm of his hand. He examined her face, looking at the fear that etched itself across her smooth skin. "How did she feel?" he whispered, his lips closing over hers. Moira squeezed her eyes shut, letting him slip his tongue into her mouth. He roughly assaulted her, both his hands on her hips and grasping them, pushing her up against the wall.

"What did she taste like?" he grunted, his hand running up her thigh and over her stockings. "You didn't even get to lick her fucking pussy," he sneered, pushing her against the wall and walking away. Tears started to glitter in Moira's eyes, her heart racing. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I tried, I-I really did."

"Well it wasn't good enough!" Tate shouted, raising his hands to the air. "Jesus Christ, Moira. I ask you to do one simple fucking thing and you manage to fuck it up!" Moira ran her hands through her hair, trying to steady her breathing. Tate's nostrils flared as he gripped the banister on the stairs.

"I guess I just have to do it myself, don't I?" he said, his eyes boring into the wood. He turned to Moira, slouched against the basement wall. His lips curled up in a snarl. "Get up," he commanded. "You're pathetic." He melted into the foundations of the house, leaving Moira alone to cry, shuddering and holding herself until she slipped away into nothingness.


	9. Chapter 9: The Devil Arrives

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction, he is also a serial killer. Hence why we're thrust into an AU. Enjoy. ~I'm so sorry that I've been away from this story! With the anticipation of the new season and new characters, I've been focused on what's to come rather than what is already there! I will finish this story next chapter to tie up loose ends, and for those who are still reading.

**WARNING: This chapter contains mention and scenes of rape. Please procede with caution.**

Chapter 9 – The Devil Arrives 

It took two weeks for Lisbeth to finally find a lead on the death of Sydney Cooper. It was a Tuesday and Lisbeth had settled herself nicely into the Victorian style house, making herself a small nest that she almost thought of as home. But the constant ringing on her cell phone with Armansky on the other end asking for updates reminded her that this was not home and that she wouldn't see home until she finished up this assignment. Lisbeth cracked down on the investigation, spending hours in the community library, flipping through aging yellow newspapers and torturing her eyes staring at a white screen full of small black text on old news articles. But it was all the same, never anything new.

At first she thought it was left from the previous owner of the house, an heirloom that was overlooked when packing and shuffling into the moving van. Lisbeth had set the gold locket onto the dresser in her room, letting it collect dust as she moved about the room, dressing and smoking and fuming over the frustrations the case was bringing her. It was an insignificant piece of metal that took up no space and no interest to Lisbeth whatsoever. Until she took a look at Sydney Cooper's school photo in the news article of her death while she was eating a bowl of Lucky Charms in the kitchen, once again looking through the photos of the lost souls and the possible murderer.

Around her slender neck was a gold chain, a gold heart dangling from the center and hitting just before the scoop of her sweater. Lisbeth stared at the piece of jewelry, her eyebrow furrowed. It looked so familiar…

She ran up the stairs, skipping over steps, and raced into the bedroom that she had claimed as her own. The sheets were sprawled over the mattress, her clothes scattered across the floor in clumps, with cigarette smoke staining the walls and food wrappers on the nightstand. Lisbeth rushed over to the dresser, the top cluttered with papers and make-up products, and finally found the gold locket scrunched and hidden beneath all of the mess on top.

Settling herself on the bed, Lisbeth examined the locket, the pendant glinting in the rays of sunlight that creeped its way through the window. Lisbeth's lips parted in a small 'o' shape as she examined the necklace in the light, her heart beginning to race. This was it, _this _is what tied it all together. All she needed was proof that it was Cooper's.

"Pretty thing, isn't it?" Lisbeth froze, the hair on the back of her neck standing up straight. The room had dropped to a significantly low temperature, and suddenly she could see her breath coming out in puffs before her. She craned her neck to look in the doorway to her room and say a boy about 5'10" leaning against the frame, his arms crossed and his brown eyes staring at Lisbeth like a piece of meet. Lisbeth felt like throwing up at her feet.

It was Tate Langdon, the 17-year-old school shooter that had once lived in this house. But he was dead! How was this possible?! Suddenly the taxi driver's voice echoed in her head, and her face fell, her skin turning a shade of pale white.

Tate watched as the young woman examined him, as her mind began to piece together the information that was unfolding before her. He smiled, his eyes shying down to look at his feet, his teeth sparkling in the sunlight. "I've been watching you, Lisbeth Salander," he said, and he took a step into the bedroom.

With the first _creak_ of the floorboards, the first flinch Lisbeth made as she watched the ghostly intruder advance towards her, Tate began to feel the familiar buzz of adrenaline course through his veins. The fear, the uncertainty – it's what drove him completely mad. He licked his lips, taking tentative steps closer to her.

Lisbeth was a fighter. She would yield to no man, and this was not an exception. Except she couldn't feel her legs, and her heart felt like it was ready to burst out of her chest. The locket slipped out of her grasp and fell with a soft _clink_ on the hardwood floor beneath her. It was like everything was in slow motion.

In one swift movement, Tate Langdon was on top of her, pinning her wrists above her head, her eyes wide. His knee pushed her legs open and he let his face nestle in the crook of her neck, taking in the smell of her soap, nicotine, and fear that was soaked in her skin. He shivered, feeling all the blood rush to his head. "I'm going to fuck you so hard," he whispered in her ear.

Lisbeth squirmed underneath him, kicking as hard as she could, but Tate's supernatural strength was too much for her, and her mind was suddenly transported back to when she had been raped and tortured in her old guardian's "care". But this was different; just so, so different.

Moira let her eyes peer into the crack in the doorframe as she watched the struggle in front of her. Tate's hand over Lisbeth's mouth, trying to muffle the screams that no one would hear, the soft grunts that escaped his mouth as his hands started to trace down her body and feel her for the first time…

"No, no, please," she begged. Lisbeth did not beg, she did not surrender to anyone. It was the first time she had felt so completely helpless and alone that she could think of no other mechanism but to beg to retain what little sanity she had left. Tate chuckled, his hand running over the slick material of the leather pants that clung to her legs. He could feel her heat, her desire, her _want_ radiating through the thick material and he was starting to grow impatient.

"Begging only makes me harder," he said, and he clawed at the band of her pants until he had ripped it like paper, tearing it into pieces and leaving it scattered on the bed. _How funny_, he thought. _I took Violet's virginity on this very bed._ Anger began to cloud his mind at the thought of the blond, at the thought of all the women that had ridiculed him in life and in his death. All he wanted now was to watch them suffer.

"What's makes you so _fucking _special?" he growled, as his fingers pressed up against the thin cotton panties in between her legs. Tears were springing in Lisbeth's eyes as she watched her attacker hover over her, begin to assault her with rough hands and malice laced in his voice. "What makes you think you can stop me when all those other girls couldn't?" He smiled at her, his face leaning down close to her. Gently, as if he were trying to calm a fussy child, he pressed his lips lightly to her cheek. Lisbeth's breathing started to sway, and she felt like she was ready to pass out.

Moira cringed, letting his words sink into her. She felt Lisbeth's pain, could understand the hurt and the fear that was undoubtedly filling her body. But she could say nothing, do nothing that would make him stop. There never was. She sunk into the foundation of the house, cowering in shame.

With one hand, Tate undid the buckle of his belt, and with the sound of the rough snap of the button of his jeans and the harsh sound of the zipper coming down, Lisbeth screamed harder against the palm of his hand. Tate bit down on his bottom lip as he grabbed himself, pushing her legs open farther and pressing the tip of his manhood against the fabric of her underwear. He closed his eyes, his lips parted, groaning as he felt the heat coming from her.

"This is better than I imagined," he said, as he slipped himself inside of her with a forceful push. Libseth arched her back and screamed against his hand, an ice cold pick digging itself into her body and fire burning her skin. She could feel her flesh beginning to sear and sizzle and she begged, prayed, pleaded to an unknown god to save her and end the unbearable pain her body was enduring as Tate began to thrust into her with such angered force it shook the bed.

His grunts filled the room, the slapping of their skin echoed in their ears, and the tears that began to stream down Lisbeth's face stained the palm of Tate's hand and sent him over the edge. He came inside her, feeling her walls close in around him, and he collapsed on top of her, his hand slipping from her mouth, letting her gasps and hiccups free themselves.

Tate grew limp, wiggling himself off of her and leaning over her as she melted into the bed. "Now you're mine," he whispered in her ear. His breath was hot, but his presence was ice cold, and Lisbeth felt like she was drowning. Her entire body felt like it had been beaten and cut apart and now all she could do was wait for death to take her. She blinked at him, unable to speak or move or make any sort of sign that she heard his threat, his promise, his statement of his ownership over the body that lay before him. He smiled down at her, placing his lips against hers in a tender kiss.

"Until we meet again," he said, and he disappeared without a sound, just like he had appeared in the first place.


	10. Chapter 10: The Dragon Prevails

**A/N: **I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction, he is also a serial killer. Hence why we're thrust into an AU. Enjoy.

~This is the end! I'm sorry this isn't as great as I had once planned it to be, or probably what you wanted. But I've been busy with school and I just had no drive to write this story. But I decided to finish it with an even 10 chapters letting good triumph over evil as per standard protocol. I hope you don't hate me too much for butchering a potentially great piece of AU fanfiction.

Chapter 10 – The Dragon Prevails

He watched her for a week. The way she trudged down the steps, one at a time, with her head hung low and her shoulder's slumped. Her bones, which already were popping out of her skin, were even more prominent now that she was too sick to eat. Lisbeth Salander was withering away and it made the glint in Tate's eyes sparkle with each cough, watching as her skin turned blue.

But he grew angry as he watched her sulk, as she rocked herself in the bed muttering over and over "_Devil, devil, devil_", her tongue heavy and her voice cracking. If she was going to die, she could die on someone else's property. He wanted her to pack up and leave, but she just lay in the large bed, pissing on herself, crying, and letting herself collapse into the darkness.

Lisbeth could barely swallow her own spit, and she felt her lungs give way and her body shut down on her. She felt death wrap its cold arms around her with each breath she took, a large shudder that took so much energy from her, and she was beginning to accept her doom. She would never accomplish the great tasks she had set out for herself, never see Mikael or Armansky again – all she would remember were those brown eyes, glowing ruby with hatred, staring down at her as he tore her apart.

A week after the assault Lisbeth pulled herself out of bed and fell into the bathtub, letting hot water run from the pipes and fill the tub with scalding waves. Dipping herself in the warmth, she let the burning sensation run over her skin and finally, she felt pain that didn't ebb from her heart. She fell asleep in the bath, waking when it grew cold, and picked herself up and covered her gray body with a towel before she made her way back into her room, ready to fall back into a nightmarish sleep once again.

Tate watched her as she lifted herself from the tub, watched as the water dripped from her skin in droplets and form pools at her feet. He licked his lips, wanting more than anything to pounce on her and maker her his one more time. _Why not?_ He thought. _He had done it already, she knew he was coming for her. What was holding him back? _He followed her into the room, the towel slipping from beneath her, and she pulled a pair of cotton shorts over her thighs and an over-sized tee-shirt she had stolen from Mikael's apartment, and she inhaled the scent of his after shave.

Her mind went fuzzy at the memory of Mikael's touch, so gentle and soft, full of desire and tenderness, and she almost wanted to cry. She didn't realize until that very moment how much she had missed the man, and how her last encounter with him had been over the computer screen. Lisbeth wrapped her arms around herself, letting herself believe for a split second that they were Mikael's arms, before she felt a real pair surround her, and it felt like a bucket of ice water was being thrown on her.

"Shhh," he whispered into her ear, as her eyes popped open and her mouth opened up in a scream. Her chest began to heave, her heart thudding loudly. She squeezed her eyes shut. _Please god, not again._ Tate let his hands run over the bones that jutted out of her skin and smiled against the collar of her neck. "So beautiful," he murmured, planting kisses as he trailed down her shoulder. "Death suits you, Lisbeth."

Anger surged through her veins and she pushed herself out of his grip. She turned to him, her eyes glowing with hatred and agony, and she watched as Tate tilted his head at her, like she was a curious animal behind glass at the zoo. He took a step closer to her now, a twitch of a smile appearing on his lips.

"Don't tell me you're getting all brave on me now," he said, a low chuckle escaping from the back of his throat. "Don't tell me you're going to start fighting for yourself." He shook his head, a grin breaking out across his face, dimples digging into the side of his cheeks. His fists began to ball at his side, and all the anger started to fill his very core. "Don't _do_ this to me, Lisbeth!" he screamed. "Don't _make_ me kill you! Just make it easy for yourself, why don't you?"

Lisbeth took two steps back, her bottom bumping against the nightstand. Her hands began to clutch at the objects on the table – a pack of a cigarettes, an empty glass, the glass ashtray filled with stale cigarette butts – and she grasped the edge of the ashtray with her palm and flung it at Tate with as much force as her muscles would allow. The tray hit Tate right in the temple, sending him backwards, a giant gash emerging on the flesh. He shook his head, as if dazed, his hand flying up to the cut, and saw the blood that started to spurt from the wound. He looked at her, his eyes gleaming.

"Clever," he said, and the blood on the tips of his fingers started to disappear, and Lisbeth noted the way the wound started to heal itself, like a giant eraser was coming down to wipe the mistake clean. Her heart dropped into her stomach and she realized with utter fear that she could not kill what was already dead. Tate smiled as her face fell, as she realized with false hope that this was the end of the line for her.

Lisbeth had stared death in the face before many times. But never had she stared at the Devil himself while she did so.

Grabbing the pack of cigarettes from behind her, she plucked the packet of matches from inside and held it up in front of her. Tate eyed her curiously, looking at the thin pack in her hand. He couldn't quite make out what she was smiling about, but she took a thin match from the pack and struck it against the surface, setting the tip on fire.

There are many theories on how to get rid of spirits in one's house. There are priests that can be called, demonologists to consult, and a whirlwind of other old wives tales that have been told from generation to generation on cleansing your life of the afterlife. Lisbeth Salander was never a believer of ghosts, never once thought that after you have left this life that there was a chance of returning as a shadow of your former self. In fact, even with Tate Langdon, a boy legally pronounced dead years ago, standing in front of her very eyes, Lisbeth still did not believe in ghosts.

Because Tate Langdon was not a ghost; he was the Devil.

Lisbeth let the match fall from her fingers and she watched as it sprang to life as soon as it hit the hardwood floor. Tate let his jaw fall open as he watched the flames dance and lick at his feet, his memories of his dealings with fire flooding his memory, and steered his eyes away from Lisbeth, sprinting over the bed and heading out of the room and down the stairs of the house.

She ran into the living room and found all of the files and papers she had on Sydney Cooper's murder along with the deaths of the other girls, and grabbed her PowerBook and shoved it into her backpack that was slung on the armchair. As she forced her feet into her boots, she tilted her head up to meet face to face with Moira O'Hara, although not as she had last seen her.

She was crippled, with her face sagging and lines etched into the skin that told more stories than any writer could even begin to tell. One of her eyes were clouded over, barely even visible, and her mouth was in a tight line as she looked at the young Swede. Behind her stood the Harmon family, whom Lisbeth had completely forgotten about in the week following her attack. They looked at her, their eyes glued to her frozen form, and one by one, their mouths turned up in a smile.

"Thank you," Moira said, her voice shaky, as she helped Lisbeth to her feet. Ben took a step towards her, his strong jaw broken out in a breathtaking smile. His hand on Lisbeth's shoulder, he began to gently lead her towards the door, like a father would to his child. "You did well, Lisbeth," he praised. Even Violet, who clung to her mother with babe in arms, smiled at her.

Finally, the torment was over.

The harsh screams coming from upstairs belonged to Tate Langdon and Tate Langdon alone as the flames engulfed him, as he burned and felt the pain that he had caused every man, woman, and child that had ever stumbled onto his path.

Ben opened the door for Lisbeth, giving her a soft push out of the door, and she spun on her heel to look at the figures in front of him. "Y-You're all dead, aren't you?" she choked, looking to each face with new eyes. Violet chuckled and Vivien gave her a stern look. Ben nodded.

"Yes," he said. Lisbeth opened her mouth to speak again, to ask a million questions, but Ben shook his head. "You must leave, Lisbeth," he said. "Leave and never come back. And you must never, _ever_, speak of this house or what happened here again? Is that clear?" Lisbeth swallowed a large lump in her throat, her tongue tasting of dust and smoke, but she nodded her head. Ben smiled at her. "Good," he said. "Now run along."

Lisbeth turned to look out at the world around her – a bright sun hanging over head, the trees swaying in the light breeze – and all she could hear were the sounds of Tate's screams coming from inside the house, the smell of the fire and the rot as the house began to burn. The distant sound of sirens echoed in her ears, and it immediately alerted Lisbeth to the realization that she had just set a house on fire.

She bolted down the road, heading for somewhere dark, somewhere safe, somewhere away from the Murder House.

**Two Weeks After – Sweden**

Armansky rubbed his temples, closing his eyes as he tried to process the text he just read. "Let me get this straight," he said, dropping his hands to look across his desk at Lisbeth Salander, who was chewing a piece of gum loudly, staring at him blankly. "You went out for groceries and came back and the house was on fire and you just _left_?" Lisbeth nodded her head, and Armansky fell back in his chair. "Why did you leave, Lisbeth?" he questioned. "Why wouldn't you stay and talk to the police?"

"I don't do well with the police," she said firmly. Her mind was already starting to heal from her time in LA, and the fact that the fire was still following her home was beginning to bug her. Armansky shook his head. "Lisbeth, you're lucky no one got killed!" he exclaimed. "You could have been faced with a federal charge! They think _you_ started the fire!" Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders, picking herself off the seat and slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

"Can I go now?" she questioned, looking at her boss dully. Armansky looked at her with wide eyes, his face in utter shock. She just did not care. He shook his head, letting out a long sigh, and waved his hand at her. "You can go," he said, and as Lisbeth made her way towards the door, Armansky slammed a hand down on his desk and Lisbeth looked back at him with slits for eyes.

"Why won't you tell me what happened in LA?" he questioned. "Why did you just show up after a month's worth of research, and tell me you found absolutely nothing? You can't honestly think that I believe that crock of bull shit, Lisbeth." Lisbeth took large steps towards Armansky until she was leaning across the desk, her eyes boring into his.

"I told you, I found nothing," he said, her voice icy. "Tate Langdon is dead, those girls are dead, there is no lead on who could have killed them. End of story. Case closed." She pulled away from him slowly, his jaw dropped as a chill ran down his spine at her words. It was obvious that she was hiding information from him, but he knew that he would never be able to get it out of her. Lisbeth did not ask to leave, did not wait for permission to be dismissed, and left Armansky's office, slamming the door behind her.

The Dragon walked, her head bent low, as she felt the Devil's eyes on her even as he slumbered in the ground underneath her feet. Even though he had fallen, he would rise again, and the Dragon was ready to fight fire with fire once more.

_**-änden**_


End file.
